


300 Years of Christmas

by szszsz



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:25:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/szszsz/pseuds/szszsz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor spent over 300 years on Trenzalore. This is just one of many Christmas Days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	300 Years of Christmas

Now when he stopped running, time is finally catching up with him. Of course, he was old before.

But now his bones crack with every move he makes, causing a painful sensation and making an unpleasant noise; his gait became ponderous and treacherous and his hair is grizzled. This endless war exhausts him. He finds it hard to stand up longer than few minutes, sometimes his hands are shaking for no reason and his face is rough and wrinkled.

It's okay though. Honestly, he doesn't mind none of that these moments when he's sitting in the tower waiting for the dawn. It's a Christmas Day in Christmas Town. The Doctor is waiting, curled up in a blanket. The air is cool as he breathes it in and his hearts beat steadily as he closes his eyes.

It's really quiet up here without Handles. And Clara. And Amy and Rory, and River, and Rose, and Donna (oh, specially _without Donna_ ), and Martha, and so many others. Even the Daleks are gone for a moment, maybe they're planning something nasty (he should check later how the rebuilding of the east wall is going, he makes a mental note to himself). He's here to do his old job, protect the people he loves, fight for what is right, but nights like this he spends dreaming and remembering. He has the Tardis now, he could run away. He keeps telling himself that one day he will. But he never leaves. He's not afraid of what is yet to come. He doesn't want it nor does he like it, but he accepts it. He's just _so_ tired. Is this what being old means?

He opens his eyes and there's a little boy standing in front of him with a pot of tea.

“Thank you Barnable.”

The boy nods. The Doctor knows that's not Barnable, only his son, but the boy doesn't protest. The real Barnable died in a battle few years ago. And yet something about him feels so like his father, so familiar. Maybe it's his gentle moves as he pours the tea down into a cup and hands it to the Doctor or maybe it's his trustful gaze or this shy little smile that makes the old man miss him so much.

“Is it worth it, Doctor?” the boy asks.

“What is?”

“Waiting here, everyday, alone in cold and darkness, just for a couple minutes of sunlight.”

The Doctor falls silent for a minute. “Do you know how old I am, Barnable?”

The boy shakes his head. “I must be about 1,500 years now. Probably. I can't be sure, I don't really count. But I've spent over 300 years on this planet. That's one fifth of my life.” He stops for a moment and continues after a while. “Yes, it's only 3-4 minutes of daylight each morning, but multiple it by 300 years you'll get 900 - 1,200 minutes of daylight. That's 20 hours, well, probably more. Imagine that, Barnable. Almost _a day._ ”

“I suppose” not-Barnable says slowly. “But still, it's an awful lot of waiting.”

The Doctor laughs. “Yes, it does take time, eh? And yet I can never get enough... there's never enough.”

Another Christmas on Trenzalore. He stares into a starless night and drinks the tea which is no longer hot, only warm. The boy leaves, but in the air resonating with one question the Doctor can still hear another faint melody. Somewhere, someone is singing.

_Silent night..._

 


End file.
